City of God (6 page)

Hellraiser had lived among gangsters since he was a child over in São Carlos. He liked listening to their stories about hold-ups, robberies and murders. Even when he passed them at a distance, he made a point of greeting them. He never refused them favours, and gladly skived off school to help the movers and shakers: he cleaned their guns, wrapped up dope and, to get in their good books, he sometimes used his own money to buy the kerosene they used to clean their weapons. When he got bigger
he'd get himself a gun so he could get rich in robberies, but while he was still a kid he'd continue stealing his dad's loose change. He never noticed anyway because he was always pissed as a fart. His mum was no fool with money – she was really sharp. He liked his mum, even though she was a gossiping, foul-mouthed slut. The happiness and confidence he felt at the time Spliff asked him to hide a revolver at his place grew a lot after Spliff was killed. That beautiful shooter had been handed to him on a platter. He treated the .38 as if it held the answer to all his problems. A wild cure-all cared for with kerosene and a longing to hit the jackpot.

After his grandmother died, Hellraiser decided he'd never be skint again. Work like a slave? Never. He wasn't going to eat packed lunches and take orders from white guys, always doing the donkey work with no chance of moving up in life, waking up really early to start work and earn peanuts. In truth, his grandmother's death only encouraged him to continue down the path on which he had already taken his first few steps, because, even if his grandmother hadn't been killed, he would have followed the path that led him away from slavery. No, he wouldn't be a sucker on a construction site – he'd gladly leave that job to the guys who arrived from Paraíba dying of thirst. The third time he did a hold-up he had a shootout with the police, but was lucky enough to come out unscathed. The idea of sweating it out on a construction site with the thirsty bastards from up north seemed more attractive, but like hell it was – the best gangsters have luck on their side. One day he'd hit the jackpot.

Not one of Hellraiser's victims reported him; only the boy he had shot had to file a police report because there had been a policeman on duty at the hospital where he was treated. Another guy who had been mugged played for Unidos, knew Hammer, and was one of the cool guys. Aluísio had come from the
neighbourhood of Irajá, played tambourine with the local samba school, and studied at the same secondary school as some of the heads who hung around with Orange. He felt humiliated, so he talked to some of the cool guys and told them his story, trying to get them to side with him, or at least establish a network of sympathisers. Regardless of whatever came of that, however, he was going to do something about it. He couldn't let a gangster give him a hard time, otherwise what would become of his life in the estate? People might think he was a wimp and he'd never hear the end of it. Things definitely couldn't be left like that.

It was already after two in the morning when Hellraiser saw Ari out front through a crack in the window. He opened the door without making any noise and gestured for his brother to be quiet as he entered.

‘There's money, a watch and a chain for you to sell over in Estácio. Tell mum if she wants to come, she can come tomorrow, because I'm already outta here, OK? Just tell her to say she doesn't know me, and everythin'll be fine.'

Ari kept quiet; only his gaze wandered while his brother was talking. He thought everything was his fault. If he weren't a faggot, his brother would be living with them. As soon as he'd started cross-dressing, Hellraiser had taken off. He liked him. Deep down, he sometimes believed his brother was fond of him, sometimes he didn't. He hated sex at that moment, blaming it for all of his misfortune. A silence that implied a hug or handshake descended upon them, until Hellraiser sent him on his way.

‘Stay clear of the cops, OK? Look after yourself!'

Ari stepped into the City of God night, where various other silences were piled up in each alley. The night spilled across his restless gaze. He had to steer clear of the police. Anything even remotely out of place in the night was suspicious. He looked
around him. He decided to take off his heels so he could run a bit when he noticed a man standing on the next corner. He made sure the money and jewellery were secure, crossed over to the other side of the road, slowed his pace and visualised his
pombagira
. The man didn't move, making Ari even more apprehensive. He'd wait until he was close to the corner, then take off running. Holding his purse in front of him and pretending to look for something, he got his pocket knife out of his knickers, opened it and held it in his right hand, mincing along for all he was worth in the hope that the man on the corner would believe he really was a woman. He thought about turning back to ask his brother for help, but was afraid Hellraiser would say he'd been cruising. His potential attacker was less than ten yards away and he thought about making a run for it. His heart was the noisiest thing at that moment.

‘Don't worry ‘bout the swollen cunt and hairy arsehole, you just gotta ram your pole!' said the man on the corner, revealing that he was completely drunk.

Ari turned the last corner, walked to the end of the street and went into the Doorway to Heaven, where Neide and Milk were having a beer while they waited for him. Ari paid the bill, hurrying along his friends from the Red Light District. They got into Milk's VW and headed for Estácio.

The clanking of the milkman woke Hellraiser. It took him a few minutes to remember everything that had happened, then he splashed his face with water from the spout in the kitchen and went outside holding his gun, without checking to see if it was loaded. He wasn't going to use it; he just wanted to intimidate the milkman.

‘Hey, man! Get over here so we can chew the fat.'

‘What's up?' said the milkman.

‘Reckon you can do us a favour?'

‘Course I can!' he said nervously, trying not to look at the revolver or into Hellraiser's eyes.

‘It's like this: you've gotta carry a mattress, stove, sofa, wardrobe and radio down to Block Thirteen. I'm gonna get myself a squat down there, then in you go, OK?'

‘OK.'

‘How many trips you gonna make?'

‘From what you said, I reckon two.'

‘So this is how it works then: get yourself organised over here and I'll get myself set up over there. I'll pick a squat quickly and wait for you there, OK man?'

‘Uh-huh.'

Hellraiser picked two houses. One was for him and the other for Hammer.

The milkman was quick. Hellraiser left the wardrobe in the house reserved for Hammer and the rest in his new house. He gave the milkman a watch, paced around the living room with his hands behind his back, thought about his father's illness, his mother's legs climbing the slopes of the
favela
… He felt a brief sadness and opened the window; a ray of sunlight invaded the Short-Stay House, motivating him to go out to get something to eat.

Before entering Dummy's Bar, he saw Black Carlos crossing Middle Street holding two bottles of beer. He called his friend over and quickly spun a lie. He said the police had blockaded his house during the night and that he was only alive because he hadn't done anything rash. He could never go back again because he couldn't afford to show up at a place the pigs were keeping an eye on.

‘Hurry up and grab yourself one of those empty houses, man!'

‘You think I haven't already? … I've already moved, man!'

They went to Black Carlos's house. On the way, Hellraiser asked a boy to run an errand for him:

‘Go and get two bread rolls and a pound of mortadella … Take it to that house over there,' he said, pointing at his friend's house.

The boy was quick. They ate, drank, smoked dope and cigarettes and made small talk until Black Carlos told his friend to take a nap, after seeing him yawn several times.

‘Good idea. I'll reckon I'll head home …'

‘You can catch a wink right where you are, man. I'm going out for a stroll, OK? You can stay as long as you like, no problems … This place is clean.'

Before leaving, Black Carlos told his friend that Lúcia Maracanã would come fix a nice dinner for them. Hellraiser thought about taking a shower and even headed for the bathroom, but changed his mind when he felt his head spinning; he was out of it on beer and good shit. He lay down, still dressed in his T-shirt, jocks and tapered trousers.

He woke up at around two in the afternoon to the sound of Lúcia and Berenice talking. He showered. When he left the bathroom he checked out the unknown woman's legs. At first, the way he wouldn't take his eyes off her made Berenice uneasy. But as the minutes passed, she crossed and uncrossed her legs as much as possible. Lúcia talked about her carnival costume as she cooked.

‘Did I tell you I'm gonna parade with the
sambistas
? I can't be bothered with choreography, havin' to rehearse every Wednesday, know what I mean? But not the
sambistas
. It's every man for himself and God for all. And all I'm wearin' is a little G-string, dance shoes, stockings and the top. This business of wearin' lots of clothes just restricts your movements. I like to let my feet do the talkin' – spinnin' down the avenue like a turkey ain't my
thing … This year I'm gonna parade with São Carlos, Salgueiro and the school from here. I'm goin' all in white so I can get into all three in the same costume,' she said.

Hellraiser was quiet, wondering if anyone had filed a report on his jobs. He regretted stirring things up within the estate itself. Niftyfeet was always saying you shouldn't shit on your own doorstep. But come to think of it, there was no two ways about it – it would have been impossible to case out a good joint, then hold it up, knowing his ponce of a brother was in the area. Time was short. ‘They'll probably do an identikit picture,' he thought. Although he was worried, he admired Berenice's body: her fleshy painted lips, a pair of tight little shorts showing off her round bum, her pointy, mouth-watering breasts, shapely legs, big eyes and soft voice … He got a hard-on.

Lúcia announced that dinner was ready, got out some plates and cutlery, and helped herself to rice, beans, and ox-rib and potato stew. Berenice offered to serve Hellraiser. He gave her the thumbs-up with his right hand without taking his eyes off the house across the way. The clinking of plates and cutlery also came through the neighbouring window. Hellraiser watched an old woman cooking over a fire in her own living room for four grandchildren. Now they were eating beans and the smoke was making their eyes red. A sense of sadness sobered him, but Berenice's hand on his shoulder made him smile. She handed him the plate. He ate slowly, with his mouth closed so as not to do anything embarrassing in front of the woman he had the hots for.

Berenice was from the
favela
of Praia do Pinto, where she had been born and raised with nine brothers and sisters. When she was still a girl she had started stealing food from supermarket shelves in Leblon and Ipanema. Now she only stole from rich housewives at street markets in the South Zone. She was always inviting Lúcia to steal with her. She thought stealing food at the
markets was child's play. The thing was to filch money, gold chains and bracelets.

‘It's a piece of cake!' she repeated each time she and Lúcia talked about it.

When their mother died, each of the children headed off in different directions. Berenice went to live with Jerry Adriane in the
favela
of Esqueleto. She stayed with him until his body was found in São João de Meriti with fifty bullets in it and a sign hanging from his neck saying: ‘I won't steal any more. Signed: White Hand.' Berenice moved with her father to City of God, where he drank himself to death. Now she was alone, wanting to start life over. She was tired of cooking for herself, sleeping alone. She wanted to have children as quickly as possible because she already felt old. When she saw Hellraiser, she thought he was charming and allowed herself to be seduced by his words during that first meeting.

‘Chuck us a smoke!' said Hellraiser, and after Lúcia handed him one he added, ‘You know, Lúcia's always had some hot friends.'

‘So why haven't you fixed yourself up with one?' asked Berenice.

‘So far none of them have made my heart beat faster!'

Lúcia sensed her friend's intentions, said she was going to Madalena's to score some weed and left the two of them alone.

‘Looks like you're the choosy sort, then. Life's a bit hard on people like that, don't you reckon?'

‘To be honest, I reckon you're right, you know. And you know what? I'm gonna give it to you straight – I think my heart's chosen you. It's our stupid hearts that do the choosin', and when I saw you my heart took off like a racehorse,' declaimed Hellraiser.

‘Yeah right, pull the other one … A gangster's heart only beats in the soles of his feet and doesn't take off anywhere – it's always lyin' low.'

‘C'mon, girl … Ain't you ever heard of love at first sight?'

‘Gangsters don't love, they lust,' answered Berenice, laughing.

‘It's a bit hard to talk like this …'

‘Gangsters don't talk, they chew the fat!'

‘For fuck's sake, you pick the shit out of everythin' I say!'

‘Gangsters don't say nothin', they give it to you straight!'

‘I'm gonna stop wastin' my breath on you.'

‘Gangsters don't stop, they take five.'

‘Talkin' ‘bout love with you ain't easy.'

‘What's this about love, man? You're just bullshittin'!'

‘Gangsters are fools when they're in love,' insisted Hellraiser.

‘You're gonna end up convincin' me …'

They hung around talking until Berenice promised to think about it. Lúcia arrived with a couple of beers, a bit of weed and three wraps of coke, to Hellraiser's delight. They chatted for ages. Every time she gave him half a chance, Hellraiser tried to put the moves on Berenice. He knew you sometimes had to be persistent to win a woman over.